


The Case of the Feathered Nuisance

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Violence, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:10:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13937436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Sherlock is visited by a magpie and trouble ensues.This story is now complete!





	1. Nevermore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This story is the first of two Valentine's Day challenges that fabricdragon and I set up. (I'm a bit late...) The prompts provided by fabricdragon were: Valentine’s Day, Blood, Glitter, and Corvidae. I will post the link to her story with these prompts as soon as the story is up.

**Nevermore**

The urgent tapping on the window of his bedroom woke Sherlock from much needed sleep. Entirely too soon. Could it be his newfound friend stopping by for a visit? Sherlock scrunched his eyes and, when the tapping continued _insistently_ , he exhaled loudly and with as much frustration as he could muster after just three hours of sleep following an admittedly fantastic case that had kept him awake for three and a half days. Curse that misbegotten bird.

The foolishness had started approximately a week after he had been spared a trip to Eastern Europe thanks to Moriarty’s timely return to the screens of London. Sherlock was more than sure that Moriarty was alive and simply hiding to drive him insane. It was working. Except for the arrival of the pesky Corvid and only two cases that had even been worth their while, Sherlock had been bored out of his mind. 

Bored. Ridiculously bored. Shoot-the-wall bored. Mrs. Hudson had explicitly forbidden him from shooting the wall. This was Moriarty’s fault. Jim had cruelly abandoned him to endless ennui. It was all Jim’s fault. And Mycroft’s, because everything was _always_ Mycroft’s fault.

The tapping continued. Sherlock flung the covers off his bed dramatically, rose, and pulled the curtains open. It was barely dawn but his friend, the magpie, was on the window ledge with something at his feet. “Why is this important?” Sherlock growled as he unlatched the window and opened it forcefully. The bird flew away. “There are YouTube videos detailing how to cook magpies!” he called out after the bird. 

Huffing indignantly, Sherlock picked up the item that the bird had left for him. It was an elastic pink glitter hair tie with a white cat juncture. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he pictured the item actually residing in someone’s hair. Ridiculous. He walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. Opening his journal, he found the page where he had begun logging the magpie’s _gifts_ and added it to the list.

January 10: 2” piece of jagged blue glass  
January 12: 6 ⅓” pencil #2  
January 13: Double Decker wrapper  
January 14: three paper clips  
January 17: silver Hot Wheels car (Ferrari)  
January 19: mouse skull  
January 20: pentacle earring  
January 21: ½” diameter purple glass marble  
January 22: playing card-queen of hearts  
January 23: Pepsi bottle cap  
January 26: €1 from Greece, 2003  
January 27: plastic syringe cap  
January 31: gold button  
February 1: 1" Stainless Steel Hex Head Cap Screw  
February 2: green and white poker chip  
February 3: small metal butterfly pin  
February 6: bobbin with white thread  
February 7: fishing bobber  
February 10: morganite and diamond engagement ring (find person!!)  
February 11: four bits of red yarn  
February 12: small teaspoon-Irish Celtic Point with Bright-cut Star design circa 1790  
February 14: pink glitter elastic hair tie with white cat

He tried to think of a place to store this particular gift. The more interesting ones ended up on a shelf with the rest going in a box, which Sherlock didn’t see at the moment and didn’t care to fetch it. Sighing with fatigue, he left the hair tie on the book and then staggered back into the bedroom.

Not two minutes after he’d closed his eyes, tapping was heard at the window again. “No,” Sherlock grit out. The tapping continued. “No!” He pulled the sheet over his head. The tapping continued. “No!” he screamed into the sheet and pulled the pillow on top of his head. The tapping became almost frantic.

Throwing everything off of himself, Sherlock sat up. “I’m going to murder the little beast,” he growled and stormed out of the bed and to his window. He pulled the curtain aside and glared at the bird, who, this time, didn’t flit away. “Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,” Sherlock murmured while flinging the window open. The bird stared at him balefully but still didn’t scamper off. “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”

The magpie flew into his room and then through the bedroom door to the kitchen. “I’m going to name you Henry.” He followed and then arched an eyebrow when he saw the feathered creature on his table with the hairband in his beak. “Do you want it back?” he asked snidely. “Take it. And leave.” The bird dropped it and screeched at him before picking it up again and shaking its head to and fro.

Sherlock stared at the magpie, who now seemed to be staring at him as though he were a slow child. “Evidently, you are possessed,” he muttered. The bird flitted over to his desk and perched on his dissecting scope. Frowning, Sherlock took a deep breath, tried to remember if he’d used anything that might cause hallucinations the night before, decided that no, he hadn’t, because he’d been too tired, and then moved to the stove to start the kettle. “When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Oh wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the King? I’m googling ‘how to fry a magpie’ after I make this cup of tea. You can be the guest of honor.”

At that comment, the magpie hopped off of his microscope and started flapping its wings and running around his desk like mad. Sherlock almost thought the creature hissed furiously but he was sure birds couldn’t make that type of noise. His notes, papers, pens, pencils, and all the desk clutter that he’d left on his desk fell off in a matter of seconds.

Sherlock strode to the desk and glared at the magpie. “What do you want?!” The bird seemingly marched with determination to the edge of his desk and held up the hair tie to him. “Fine, I’ll look at it.” He took the hair tie from the magpie, sat down and turned on the microscope lamp. “Will you go away and leave me alone after this?” he asked as he positioned the item on the platform. “Permanently. That would be nice. I’d settle for letting me sleep a few more hours but I don’t think _you_ take requests all that seriously.” The magpie made a raspy chatter noise that seemed to indicate pleasure.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock looked into the microscope. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “It’s a hair tie. I’m in shock. It’s glittery and pink.” He turned to stare at the bird. “How are my deductions going so far, your majesty?” The magpie’s expression seemed to morph into that you-are-a-slow-child look that the bird had worn before. “I would never have thought birds to be able to look at people that way. How do you do that, you tiny feathered nuisance?” 

Sherlock shook his head and returned to the examination of the hair tie. “Let’s see what else we have here.” He then noticed that there were two hairs at the juncture with the white cat. That might be interesting. Moving the hair tie slightly to center the cat, he saw three red hairs and a reddish brown substance. “Is that blood?” he muttered and looked at the bird. The magpie chattered a bit and rolled its neck.

Turning back to the microscope, he studied the hair tie further. He then opened a drawer, pulled out a microscope slide, and, with a scalpel, picked up from the floor, scraped off some of the brown substance. He finished making the smear and then put the slide under his compound scope. It was definitely blood. 

Sherlock looked at the bird questioningly. This was suddenly becoming rather interesting. “Is this a case?” The bird started chattering. “I don’t understand lunatic magpie speak. Help me out. Do I need to solve something? Is somebody dead?” The magpie, once more, seemed to look at him with that slow child look that he was starting to abhor. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. This was definitely a case.

*~*~*


	2. The White Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes the magpie's case and makes an unpleasant discovery.

**The White Cat**

“So, how are we going to solve this case?” Sherlock asked the magpie although he had a feeling that he should know the answer already. “Since you seem to have taken up shop here.” The bird tipped its head sideways, flew over to the stove, perched on the pot that Sherlock previously had used to make agar, and eyed the tea kettle intently. “You want tea? Luckily for you, I _am_ making tea.” The bird started tapping on the kettle. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What?” he demanded. The bird kept tapping on the kettle. Sherlock tried to ignore the creature but the incessant tapping could be classified as the worst minute of his life, seconded only by having to listen to a lecture from Mycroft. “You are a right bother,” he huffed as he marched over to the stove. “Since you brought a case why don’t you go sit in John’s chair? I’ll get the tea and we’ll solve the case.”

The magpie stared at him balefully then eyed the kettle. The stove was off. “I see,” Sherlock muttered and then turned on the burner. “A trivial detail.” The bird flew over to John’s chair, wiggled its backside, lifted its tail feathers in the air, and left a package on the seat before flying back to Sherlock’s desk and picking at some of the papers Sherlock had just rescued.

“Lovely,” Sherlock grumbled and retrieved a cleaning rag from underneath the sink. “The king was in his counting house counting out his money. The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey. The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes, when down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose!” He cleaned up the mess while keeping a careful eye on his newfound associate… or nemesis. The magpie moved to perch on his ashtray.

Once the kettle boiled and he’d filled the teapot, he brought the tea tray and some gingersnaps to his desk and sat down. The magpie had procured the damned glitter hair tie and had it in its beak. “It’s almost dawn,” he noted. “I am not cooking breakfast for you, mostly because I don’t cook but, that said, I certainly wouldn’t cook for _you_.” Dropping the hair tie, the bird unleashed a torrent of chatter and then proceeded to attack the box of gingersnaps.

“Bit of a sweet tooth, are you?” Sherlock chuckled. “I suppose we need tea and biscuits before we head off into this adventure.” He shooed the bird away from the box and then opened it. He pulled two out and set them on a plate for the bird. “Why are you here?” he asked somberly. Not that he expected a reply. The bird stared at him as though he were daft so he decided to stop that line of questioning. And poured a cup of tea for himself. Mycroft’s solution of making it _a bit stronger_ when dealing with goldfish suddenly seemed appealing.

The magpie nibbled at the cookie for a few seconds then picked up the hair tie once more, set it by the side of Sherlock’s plate, and tapped the table a few times. “Really?” More tapping. “You don’t say?” Insistent tapping. “Let me have a few sips of tea and a gingersnap and then we’ll tackle this.” The bird unleashed a torrent of seemingly furious chatter. “Fine.”

Picking up the hair tie, he eyed it, the remnants of blood, and the red hairs intently. The magpie hopped to Sherlock’s cup and took a sip. Sherlock sighed and supposed that he deserved that for not procuring the feathered menace a cup of its own. “Red hair, glitter, pink, white plastic cat.” He closed his eyes and suddenly envisioned himself in the pathology lab. Red hair. Cat. Pink. Silly. Cat. “Molly?” He stared at the bird. “It’s Molly’s!” 

The bird stared back and then he could almost see the expression changing to one that said _obviously_. Sherlock pulled out his cell phone, the pink one that had belonged to Jim. It was one of the few reminders of the man who had caught his attention, and perhaps a bit of his heart, if he was being truly honest with himself. He’d realized that too late and hoped he could somehow still make amends. The bird returned to attacking the gingersnap and making a ridiculous mess on the table.

Sherlock called Molly. Voicemail. He called again. Voicemail again. He tried a third time. Molly adored him. She always answered the phone when _he_ called. This time he left a message. A lie. Something about an important case and needing her. A sense of foreboding fell over Sherlock as the magpie hopped back to the cup and took another sip of tea. Sherlock tried one last time. The bird eyed him, rolled its neck in a rather reptilian way, and then flew to the door handle of the outside door.

“For once, I agree,” Sherlock said. He took a gulp of his tea, pocketed a few biscuits, and put on his coat. The magpie eyed him expectantly. “Once we’re outside, you’re going to fly away. Far, far, away…” The bird tipped its head coquettishly. 

*~*~*

“Nice bird,” the elderly gentleman seated close to where Sherlock was standing holding the strap hanger of the train. The magpie was sitting on his shoulder and looking rather pleased with itself. Sherlock smiled wanly. He’d tried several times to get rid of the pesky bird before he entered the tube to no avail. “How long did it take for you to train him?”

“Not long, a few minutes,” Sherlock muttered as the magpie started playing with some of his curls. “He’s adopted _me_ , not the other way around.” The bird’s chattering became louder much to the amusement of the few people in the car with him.

“Well, he’s certainly a charming fellow,” the man added. At that moment the bird peeked out from Sherlock’s hair, turned around and wiggled its backside. Sherlock recognized the signs. He moved away from all the other humans and managed to get the bird’s projectile into a corner of the car. The man chuckled. “Yes, I’d say he’s got _you_ well trained.”

Sherlock turned and glared at the feathered creature. “You are the current bane of my existence. You have surpassed Mycroft,” he grumbled softly so no one else would hear him. The magpie chattered sweetly, nibbled his ear surprisingly gently, and then rubbed its beak against Sherlock’s neck. He sighed with exasperation. “Good thing we’re almost there…” He supposed he should be marginally grateful to the magpie. Its antics were distracting him from worrying about Molly.

*~*~*

“Molly!” Sherlock yelled while pounding on the door of her flat. The magpie had flown to a nearby tree. Curse the little beast for abandoning him at that juncture. “Molly!” There was no answer. Sherlock took a deep breath to stave off his concern. He turned to look at the tree but the magpie was nowhere to be seen. “Misbegotten little beast.” He turned back to the door and started pounding again. “Molly!” There was no answer. 

Sherlock considered breaking down the door but then opted to try the handle and pushed. The door opened and he quietly stepped inside. The silence unnerved him. “Molly?” He shut the door behind him and headed towards the kitchen. “Molly? It’s me…” He walked into the kitchen and stopped short when he saw an unconscious Molly, lying on the floor with blood on and around her.


	3. Shots Fired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks for clues, calls Lestrade and John, and avoids cats while the magpie causes trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the magpie madness!

**Shots Fired**

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock dropped to Molly’s side. He noted that the blood seemed to have come from a couple of facial lacerations that didn’t seem overly swollen and had stopped bleeding. He carefully checked her pulse. It was there and fairly strong. That reassured him. Observing that she was breathing well, he almost nudged her shoulder to rouse her but then decided that, once awake, she would probably get in the way of the investigation. He noted the bruises and decided that she probably could use to sleep a bit more. Plus, he didn’t want to risk moving her and causing additional damage without professional medical help nearby.

Sherlock then called Lestrade, informing him of the crime, and then John. He thought about calling Mycroft but decided that he didn’t need his brain to become atrophied. Once that was done, he slowly took mental images, observing every minuscule detail, and filed them in his mind palace followed by phone pictures of the room and of Molly from all angles.

Many details were important: open kitchen window over the sink, undisturbed dishes in the sink, remnants of a carefully prepared meal, two glasses of wine, lipstick on one of them. Sherlock rolled his eyes and craned his neck to look at Molly’s lips. Yes, she was still using that awful shade that matched her hair. He sighed. Molly did have atrocious taste in make-up... and in men. Lestrade had been fine, probably her best option to date. He made a mental note to talk to him about either dating Molly again, since the detective was still enamoured of her, or, perhaps, offering some sort of self defense training for her. Or both.

Sherlock checked Molly once again. Her pulse and breathing hadn’t changed. That was definitely good. He then performed a second, more detailed, visual observation of the room and took phone picture close-ups only where he felt he needed more precision than the other pictures would give him. Just as he was finishing up and about to move to the rest of the flat, he heard a scratching noise coming from her bedroom.

The door was shut but he cracked it open and heard a loud plaintive meow. “No!” he said and slammed the door shut. “No contamination of the crime scene.” He eyed the door. “I’ll tell John. He’ll let you out; he’s soft like that.” Pondering his options, he decided to examine the rest of the flat first and leave the bedroom for last. Cats could be slippery.

The investigation of the other rooms went fairly quickly and just as soon as he’d finished, he heard sirens. Lestrade. Sherlock walked to the door and met the detective inspector on the steps.

“Is she all right?” Lestrade asked. Concern filled his voice. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he saw Sally Donovan getting out of the other side of the car. As soon as she had shut the door, a black bird swooped towards her and dropped a package on top of her head. She shrieked and swatted futilely at the magpie as it flew away.

Sherlock snickered. “Good shot,” he muttered underneath his breath and then looked at Lestrade. “What?”

“Is she all right?” Lestrade repeated with some annoyance and then urged them towards the door.

“It shat in my hair!” Sally screamed.

“Molly’s alive,” Sherlock said. “I let her rest. It looks like someone was let in willingly so the list of suspects is likely short. Although this is Molly, she has been known to date consulting criminals....”

“No forced entry?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock shook his head. “Okay that’s a start.” Lestrade then turned to Donovan. “Deal with that as best you can and join us.” Sherlock could have sworn she mouthed the word _freak_ at him but he didn’t care. _His_ hair was clean. Taking a moment to scan the trees, he noticed a certain magpie hiding amongst the leaves and winked at it. Once inside he pointed out that Molly was still unconscious but seemed stable, and he explained that he hadn’t wanted to move her because she might have internal injuries or she might disturb the crime scene.

“Oh, and there’s a creature in the bedroom,” Sherlock added. “I haven’t investigated there yet because I didn’t want to let the thing out.”

“It’s a cat, Sherlock.”

“It could contaminate the crime scene.”

“It’s a cat. His name is Toby. I’m going to let him out.”

“You do that,” Sherlock said. “I have everything I need from here and that’s the last room I need to look at.” They moved toward the bedroom. “And it looks like there’s blood and definitely skin from the assailant underneath her fingernails. She probably left some good marks. Don’t forget to take a sample.”

Lestrade turned and stared at him with dismay, then shook his head, and opened the door to the bedroom. The cat raced out. “Okay,” Lestrade said after a quick glance around the room. “It doesn’t look like there’s much here to look at. You go ahead, and if you find something, come get me. Immediately. Got that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded into the room when there was a shriek from outside followed by the sound of a gunshot. Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “I think your lackey is out of control,” he said coolly. “Excessive force. If this is what she does to a bird that is simply following the course of nature, I’m not sure she’s fit for police work.”

“I’m going to go outside and see what happened. Make sure that everything is okay,” Lestrade said as he strode out of the room. 

“And she calls me a freak,” Sherlock muttered underneath his breath as he started mentally cataloguing everything in the room. Nothing seemed disturbed except one dresser drawer that had been left open. He looked inside and frowned when he saw that it contained a messy collection of underthings. In one corner there was a small collection of stud earrings and a single pendant necklace that he’d seen her wear at work. He took a picture of that with his phone as well as a close-up of all the jewelry and then left the room.

Frowning, he started going over everything he’d observed as he walked back out to the kitchen. The feline was nuzzling Molly who seemed to show signs of rousing. That was good. She whimpered. The front door was open and he heard a bit of a commotion outside. He quickly checked Molly’s pulse and counted her respirations once more. Everything was still close to normal although she shied away from his touch. He texted John.

Are you close? -SH

Getting out of the car. There seems to be a row going on outside. -JW

It’s just Donovan being Donovan. Molly needs you here. -SH

With one last look at Molly, he walked out the door. Lestrade and Donovan seemed to be involved in an argument with an elderly couple, two thirty-somethings, a teenage girl, and a middle-aged man wearing some sort of football team regalia. John was walking towards him. Sherlock sighed with relief.

“How is she doing?” John asked.

“She seemed to be coming to,” Sherlock answered. “I checked her pulse and breathing as soon as I found her and just now. Both seemed close to normal.”

John nodded. “What else?”

“It looks like she had the daylights beaten out of her but she fought back,” Sherlock said and quickly glanced up to the trees to see if his friend was still there and failed to find him before looking back at John. “There’s DNA evidence underneath her fingernails so make sure Lestrade doesn’t forget that. He seems pretty distracted at the moment.”

“Yeah, that looks like quite the kerfuffle going on over there,” John noted. “Anything else?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said. “She might need an ambulance.”

“Didn’t you call one?”

“No, I decided to let you be the judge of that,” Sherlock said. John stared at him somewhat dumbfounded. “I’m going to analyze some data. Call me if she wakes up and provides intelligent information.” John seemed about to say something so Sherlock decided it was probably best to leave immediately and quickly walked away. As he passed Lestrade he heard the people around him screaming something about reckless police and community endangerment and he noticed that Sally seemed to have another bird dropping in her hair. He made sure to smirk at her as he walked past.

As soon as he was several blocks away, a feathered creature landed on his shoulder. “Hello,” Sherlock said but kept looking forward. The magpie chattered for a few seconds and then lightly nipped his ear. He turned his head and looked at the bird. “Nice shots.” The magpie made a sound that seemed entirely too much like laughter, tipped its head away slyly, and then turned back to him with a gaze that seemed like it was entirely too pleased with itself.

Sherlock laughed; and it felt good to laugh. He was still exhausted from not sleeping and from the stress of the new case and it being Molly who had been attacked. The magpie seemed to bring joy and a strange sort of magic into his life. “You are a horrid little beast, you know.” The magpie made an odd little noise that almost sounded like him when he said the word _obviously_ and then resumed chattering while playing with his hair.


	4. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and the magpie confront Molly's assailant.

**Confrontations**

“I’d like to sleep once I get this report sent off to Mycroft,” Sherlock stated. The magpie was next to him destroying a vanilla sandwich creme. On the way home, they had stopped at Tesco’s and the magpie had indicated that it wanted those biscuits and an apple. Sherlock had tried suggesting something like cheese or cold cuts and had gotten one of his curls pulled sharply. Apples and vanilla sandwich cremes it was. The employees hadn’t been convinced about the magpie being in the store but he had glared at anyone who had given them more than a passing glance and they’d been mostly left alone.

The magpie paused, turned it’s head, looked at the apple, tapped the plate with its beak, and then resumed demolishing the remnants of the biscuit. “Oh,” Sherlock said with some sarcasm. “Does that mean you want some apple?” The magpie jumped, or, more accurately, bounced off the plate and chattered enthusiastically for almost half a minute. When Sherlock didn’t do anything but listen, it walked over and tapped the apple.

“I’m not the help,” Sherlock grumbled. The magpie looked away guiltily and then rolled its neck in that creepy reptilian fashion before tapping the apple again and then hopping back to the plate and poking through the crumbs. “No.” The bird looked at him with eyes that seemed larger and much more innocent than they should be. “ _No_.” The bird chattered adorably. Sherlock sighed and picked up the apple. “Fine.” After rinsing it, he sliced it dexterously and put two slices on the magpie’s plate.

He expected his little feathered nemesis to attack the slices voraciously but instead it made a sound that seemed like a pleased sigh and then nibbled one while eying him somewhat shyly. “Are you flirting with me?” Sherlock asked and he was shocked when the magpie trilled. That was definitely a sound that he’d never expected to come from a corvid. “You’re an odd little thing.”

Even though it was still Valentine’s Day morning and the case had awakened him somewhat, Sherlock knew that he was exhausted and that he really did need to sleep. He eyed the magpie once more and then looked at the room thinking about what the bird could get into, leave presents on, destroy, or what could hurt it if he were to sleep. The answer was too much. 

Sighing, Sherlock began cleaning up and putting things away. “You’re turning me into a respectable human being,” he grumbled. The magpie let the piece of apple in its mouth fall, and made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a chortle. It then chattered at him, definitely at him, for a solid minute, while looking intensely pleased with itself. “I agree with whatever all that is about,” Sherlock said politely while continuing to work. He noted that the process was rather slow going, which was why he generally avoided housework.

When the magpie had finished the slices and there were apple bits alongside the biscuit crumbs, it flew to Sherlock’s desk and tapped at the drawer. “What do you want _now_?” Sherlock eyed it skeptically. The bird again tapped the drawer. “We’re not doing this again.” The bird tapped the drawer once more. Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I said we’re not doing this.” The bird tapped much more insistently. “No.” More tapping. “There’s nothing in there for you.” The bird looked up and seemed to be glaring at him. It then chattered and flapped its wings furiously before tapping again.

Trying to imagine what the magpie could possibly want from the drawer, he slowly opened it. The creature immediately hopped on top of John’s gun and tapped it, causing Sherlock to gasp. “We don’t need a gun,” Sherlock said firmly. “We’re… I’m going to bed.” The magpie gave him the slow child look that was beginning to infuriate Sherlock and tapped the gun before flying to the door handle.

“I see,” Sherlock growled. The magpie started chattering merrily. “Well, I don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that you think that we are going out even though I need to sleep. You think that we’re going someplace dangerous. Now, that might wake me up and it _might_ be worthwhile. It probably won’t be boring and might be fun depending on which members of the Yard you choose to victimize. Is that a good summary of the situation?” The magpie stopped chattering and eyed him intently. 

“I’ll need the gun to keep us safe,” Sherlock mused. “Well, I’ll need the gun to keep _me_ safe because you’ll just fly away, assuming you don’t abandon me before things get interesting.” The magpie glared at him and then made that hissing sound he also didn’t think any avian creature could make. “Let me get my scarf and hat.”

*~*~*

They got off two stations past Molly’s stop. The car had been more crowded so the magpie had burrowed underneath Sherlock’s coat and scarf and gone completely unnoticed by any passersby until the very end despite the fact that it was fiddling incessantly with his shirt buttons and managed to pop three of them off. It had only poked its little head out to loudly announce that they had reached the stop. Once outside, the creature wiggled its way out and perched on Sherlock’s shoulder, playing with his hair or occasionally nipping an ear. 

They developed a system. When the bird wanted Sherlock to turn in a certain direction, it would fly to the appropriate shoulder and nip that ear. If it wanted Sherlock to stop and do something, there would be frantic tapping and wild chattering until Sherlock determined what the creature wanted.

At the magpie’s discretion, they stopped at one vendor for a lunch of rendang padang. Both Sherlock and the vendor were somewhat surprised at the bird’s gastronomic tastes. That was followed by a stop for passion fruit and salted caramel biskies. “Is there anything you don’t like?” Sherlock asked as they walked away. The bird’s eyes widened innocently and then it buried its head in his hair.

As they walked, they would occasionally get a stare and the magpie would sometimes chatter flirtatiously or shriek furiously. Sherlock decided that the bird must innately sense who was friendly and who wasn’t. Staring straight forward, he asked quietly, “Do I know you?” The bird reminded him so much of Jim even though he realized how little he actually knew about Moriarty besides _consulting criminal_. 

There were too many similarities and too many unavian-like behaviors. But Jim was gone; dead, over three years at this point. He wasn’t sure what to make of the hacking of every television in the nation that had recently saved him but that certainly wasn’t connected to a certain pesky magpie currently sitting on his shoulder. Sherlock vowed to think about the situation after he’d slept.

The magpie trilled sweetly. Slowly, Sherlock turned his head and found himself lost in dark mysterious eyes. They’d done this before. At the pool. After the trial. On the rooftop. As with all the previous times, Sherlock felt awe and amazement but this time it was tinged with regret. He’d never said anything. Perhaps if he had, things would have ended differently.

“I didn’t know you liked Indonesian,” Sherlock eventually murmured. The bird rolled its neck, shot him a bored look, and then indicated that they needed to make a left turn. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked but then quickly added. “Don’t answer that. You may still end up in a blackbird pie. Mrs. Hudson must have a good recipe.” The magpie pulled one of his curls. “Don’t like that thought, do you? I suggest you behave then,” he teased. The magpie squawked irreverently and then started chattering merrily.

After a few more turns, they reached a quaint six story apartment building. “This doesn’t look dangerous,” Sherlock huffed. The magpie looked at him with the slow child look, flew to the door, and perched on the handle. “I know this routine,” Sherlock grumbled mostly to himself. He eyed the entry buzzer listing then shifted his gaze to the magpie. “Right.” After noting the camera, he walked confidently to the door and, while blocking the camera, surreptitiously picked the lock. He strode in and the magpie resumed its perch on his shoulder.

As he moved towards the stairs, the elevator door opened and a familiar person walked out. Images from John’s wedding flashed through his mind. Tom. Molly’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Sherlock had deduced that at the wedding. He felt cold fury run through him. This was the individual who had attacked Molly and left her to potentially die. The magpie shrieked and launched itself at the man.

“The fuck?” Tom yelled while raising his arms to protect himself and swat the bird away. “Ow!” The magpie had pecked the side of his face and he was bleeding. Focusing on Sherlock, his expression twisted into rage. “Freak!” He drew a knife but then the magpie swooped back in and clawed his face.

Sherlock closed the distance and landed two quick abdominal jabs before dancing out of the way as Tom swung the knife at him. He smelled like alcohol and his pupils were blown. Sherlock didn’t care that the man was probably drunk or drugged. He’d hurt Molly. The magpie bit Tom’s ear viciously. 

Tom swatted the magpie with enough force to propel it across the room and then stared at Sherlock furiously. “What is this? You’re training birds to do your dirty work, you pug-ugly tosser.” He threw himself at Sherlock and tried to drive the knife into Sherlock’s chest but Sherlock avoided the blow as he shifted into a fighting stance. The magpie righted itself and started screeching furiously from the ground.

“Why did you attack Molly?” Sherlock asked grimly. He quickly closed the distance and then punched Tom’s abdomen hard followed by a jab to the head and backhand to the side of the head on the return swing before stepping back and readying. The magpie fluttered to a decorative table near the mailboxes.

“She... she!” Tom sputtered then growled furiously and charged Sherlock. “It’s always been about _you_.” 

Stepping aside, Sherlock managed to trip Tom and followed up with an elbow swipe to the temple as he went down. Tom tried to get up but the magpie flew to the back of his head and started pecking. “Why did you attack Molly?” Sherlock repeated.

“Get this sodding thing off of me,” he snarled and tried to swat the bird away but it held onto his hair and continued pecking. Tom grabbed the bird and squeezed. “Your bird’s dead.” The magpie squawked and then viciously, almost gleefully, attacked his hand. Tom immediately let go.

“I think the little magpie is doing just fine,” Sherlock noted. “It’s you who is going to exsanguinate fairly soon.”

“Piss off!” Ignoring the magpie, Tom launched himself upward at Sherlock who again moved out of the way and then landed a solid blow to the side of the man’s head. Tom tumbled to the ground, hitting his head against the floor, and fell unconscious. Sherlock felt extremely satisfied. It wouldn’t change what had happened to Molly but it might make her feel better and it certainly did him. The magpie landed next to Tom. It screeched loudly in his ear as if to make sure that he was unconscious and then flew to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“He’s out,” Sherlock said. “I _am_ an accomplished pugilist.” The magpie chattered agreeably. Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit and then I’ll call Lestrade.” The magpie hopped down Sherlock’s arm and perched on one of his fingers as he wiped all the blood away and then gently caressed the bird to straighten out the feathers.

When he finished, the magpie marched back up his arm to rest on his shoulder while he called the detective inspector. Afterward it started chattering softly. Keeping Tom in his line of sight, Sherlock moved to the other side of the room so that he could see the door and the elevator at the same time. He leaned against the table and sighed as the adrenaline waned. 

Remembering that he had a gun, he drew it and held it the way John did when there was no immediate threat. He tipped his head a little to look at the magpie. “Pound for pound, you’re just as good as John in a fight,” he said. The magpie’s trilled happily. It snuggled against his neck and started playing with his curls. Sherlock chuckled. “Unlike John, flattery seems to get me everywhere with you.” The magpie nipped his ear.


	5. Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and the magpie visit Molly in the hospital. Sherlock tries not to be abrasive and the magpie has a malfunction.

**Awakenings**

Sherlock well and truly needed to sleep but, instead, he headed to St. Barts to see Molly. After Serbia and everything that he’d been through in the past few years, he found that he appreciated Molly as a friend and realized that he hadn’t treated her all that well in the past. He was hoping to rectify that in small ways.

It had taken a while to explain the sequence of events to Lestrade, especially when the man had seemed to want more information on the magpie than on what Tom had done. The Yard had gotten a statement and DNA from Molly’s fingernails so the man had been arrested immediately upon Lestrade’s arrival.

Sherlock had been informed that Sally had been placed on administrative leave pending a review of her actions. He had, once again, highlighted the inappropriateness of her reaction toward a bird that was simply following the call of nature. Lestrade hadn’t seemed overly convinced but he had been present at the time and he hadn’t seen anything anomalous as far as Sherlock, Sally, and the bird were concerned.

The magpie had been fairly well behaved since they’d left for the hospital. It had again burrowed underneath Sherlock’s coat but then positioned itself so that its little head was poking out above his Belstaff and just beneath his scarf. At least it wasn’t playing with his buttons this time. Sherlock didn’t think he had many more of those to lose and didn’t want to think of what his little nemesis would move on to once the shirt buttons were finished. 

The walk to the hospital was surprisingly refreshing and he soon found his way to Molly’s room. He knocked and then entered. Molly looked up from the book that she was reading and smiled. “Hello, Sherlock,” she said shyly.

“Molly,” Sherlock said, and then focused on the large arrangement of pink roses and baby’s breath in a stunning crystal vase. Waterford. “New beau?” he asked. “He has good taste.”

Molly smiled. “They’re from Mycroft.”

Sherlock frowned. Why was his brother sending Molly flowers? “He wants something,” he muttered. “This is a pathetic attempt at bribery.” Molly giggled and shook her head but then an awkward silence filled the room.

Sherlock stared at her and tried to think of something, anything, to say. “You look, uh, well,” he finally mustered. Molly’s eyes widened. “I mean, considering how you looked _before_.” Molly stared at him. “You were unconscious and bleeding all over your floor.” The magpie squawked and pulled his scarf, demanding attention. Sherlock glanced down at him and then continued. “You had some pretty severe hematomas and-” The magpie started chattering indignantly.

“Who do you have there?” Molly asked quietly.

Sherlock looked down at the magpie. “Ummm… a bird,” he replied. “A pesky magpie.”

“Is it...”

“A nuisance? Yes, absolutely,” Sherlock said while taking his scarf off. The magpie squawked indignantly again. “A small, feathery bane to my existence.”

“I suppose _someone_ has to do that,” Molly noted somberly.

Sherlock paused. He’d never expected Molly to say anything of that sort. After a moment, he smiled at her. She was sweet and her teasing was, in truth, adorable. He unbuttoned his coat and the magpie rather clumsily fell out but managed to land on its feet on Molly’s overbed table. It started chattering merrily.

“Oh, my,” Molly said quietly and then raised her eyes to Sherlock. “What a cute little fellow.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s a pest,” he grumbled. “A new nemesis, no less.” He sighed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now, uh… thank you for finding me.” 

“This charming fellow led me,” Sherlock admitted. The magpie ignored him and kept chattering. “He brought me what I assumed to be one of your hair ties. It had a little white cat thing on it.” The magpie squawked and stared at Sherlock.

“I was wondering how that came out of my hair.”

“I knew that it had to be you because there were a few strands of red hair and who else wears such silly things in their hair,” Sherlock said. The magpie spread it tail feathers and started preening each feather.

“It’s Hello Kitty,” Molly explained almost sheepishly. “Lots of people like and wear Hello Kitty.”

“If you say so.”

“I do…” Molly said tentatively as though she was terrified of disagreeing with Sherlock.

The magpie let out a shriek and then started flapping its wings furiously, attacking every item on the table until it had fallen. Sherlock barely managed to catch the pitcher of ice water before it crashed to the floor. When the bird finished, it looked at its handiwork. It then looked at Sherlock and Molly with an entirely too pleased expression.

“Are you done?” Sherlock asked. The magpie silently returned to preening its tail feathers.  
“What’s gotten into you? Is this a magpie malfunction?” The bird shrieked once more and then flew to Sherlock’s shoulder and tried to hide in his hair. Sherlock looked at Molly who seemed a bit taken aback. “I am going to research magpie behavior in greater depth. Tomorrow. It has had a long day so it may be tired and cranky. It attacked Tom rather viciously.”

“What?!”

“We both went after Tom; it was necessary,” Sherlock said and then paused for a moment before continuing. “Why did Tom attack you?” The magpie just about growled behind Sherlock’s curls. Molly’s eyes widened with surprise. Sherlock didn’t even flinch; he was used to the bird’s surprising repertoire of noises. “It’s quite loquacious and the array of sounds it makes is rather astonishing. But go on... about Tom?”

Molly nodded. “It started out that we were going to just talk things through but when he said that we were truly finished, he demanded his engagement ring back.” Molly turned her head to bury her face in the pillow and started sobbing quietly.

Sherlock thought of thirty three different things that could have gone wrong in that scenario but them simply asked, “What happened?”

“I couldn’t find it,” Molly sobbed. “I thought I’d left it right on the dresser, or in the drawer, but it was gone. He got so furious.”

 _“That’s_ what caused him to batter you?” Sherlock asked incredulously. The magpie growled again and Molly nodded before hiding in the pillow again. “I am now disappointed that I did not completely pulverize him.” Molly turned and stared him. “Oh, yes, my little sidekick and I turned him into a bit of a bloody mess but he deserved so much more.” The magpie pulled one of his curls. “We were somewhat relentless.”

“I can imagine it, judging by the havoc he just wrecked in here,” Molly said.

“I’m surprised he wasn’t hurt,” Sherlock said and then paused again as a few details fell into place. “What did your wedding ring look like?”

“Engagement ring.”

“Whatever. Ridiculous social conventions.”

“Sherlock!”

“It’s true.”

Molly sighed. “It had a central diamond, maybe a carat or so, and then two slightly smaller morganites next to them with a rose gold band. I loved it. It was pink.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he pictured the ring. “I would have given it back, though. I just couldn’t find it.” Sherlock turned and looked at the magpie accusingly. The creature tucked it’s head underneath its wing for a moment before peeking at him sweetly and then trying to hide in his hair.

“I’ll see if I can find it for you,” Sherlock said flatly and then shook his head to disentangle the bird. “What are you trying to do, you guilty little _Pica pica_.”

“How long have you had him?” Molly asked. “I’ve had one hanging around my flat for a bit now too but it’s never come close.”

“This one has been leaving me gifts for thirty five days, three hours, and about seven minutes.”

“I see.”

“It’s attached itself to my person since entirely too early this morning.”

“He likes you.”

“It’s a bit of a nuisance but it’s…” Sherlock smiled. The magpie started chattering. “But it’s rather charming in its own way and I’ve reluctantly become a bit fond of it.” The magpie trilled and gently played with a few of his curls.

“You know, Mycroft had said he was going to turn Jim into a magpie,” Molly blurted out.

 _She wasn’t lying_. Sherlock felt as though the floor underneath him had vanished and he was falling. Molly was prone to saying some farfetched things but this was a bit fanciful. “What?” And yet, she seemed serious. “What are you saying?”

Molly suddenly seemed concerned and shook her head. “Nothing, nothing,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything. It wasn’t anything.”

“I heard your words _clearly_ , Molly,” Sherlock said gently but deliberately. Molly shook her head vehemently. “You said that Mycroft said he was going to turn Jim, and by Jim, I presume Moriarty, into a magpie.” Molly hiccupped. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing…?” Molly squeaked. “Please, it’s nothing, really.”

“Your continued refusal indicates that it’s more significant than just _nothing_ ,” Sherlock pressed, still gently. “Everything is always Mycroft’s fault. Tell me what this is all about so that I can unequivocably fix his unquestionably mismanaged debacle.”

Sighing Molly opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “Every now and then Mycroft asks me for odd chemicals or animal parts,” she said. “At first he wanted me to kill the creatures so they’d be fresh but I- I refused.” She pursed her lips. “And I told him that he’d better not kill them himself for this reason because that’s not right and I can tell.”

“Obviously and good for you. What sorts of things has he asked for?”

“Various chemicals, I kept a list if you want to see it; and a few hearts and livers and things like that,” Molly answered. “I asked him about the magpie heart that he was more adamant about than any of the other things and he sort of brushed me off with some line about government business. When I pushed a little and mentioned that his requests were getting curiouser and curiouser, he laughed and then said he was going to turn James Moriarty into a magpie because it was fitting.” She shuddered, remembering.

“Was he joking?”

Molly shrugged. “I don’t know. He said it like he was trying to make me believe that it was a joke but there was just something altogether odd about it all.”

“You do know how strange this all sounds?” Sherlock said slowly. Molly nodded. “I’ll look into it. It’s probably some secret drug program that he can’t tell you anything about but it’ll be interesting to unravel this puzzle.” Molly nodded again. “After I research magpie behavior. And see about your ring. After I sleep. After I eat.” The magpie let out an indignant squawk and then chattered furiously. “After _we_ eat,” Sherlock amended. 

“He really is cute,” Molly said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then looked at the clock. “I should probably be going. You need to recover and I haven’t slept in eighty-seven and a half hours.”

“Yes, we both definitely need to get some rest,” Molly said and then smiled. “Thank you… both… for finding me and getting me help.” She paused. “And for beating the daylights out of that bastard.”

“It was my pleasure... our pleasure,” Sherlock said. The magpie trilled happily.

“You should kiss the magpie when you get home,” Molly suggested. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Everyone knows that’s how you break the evil witch’s spell...”

*~*~*


	6. Happy Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock experiments.

**Happy Ending**  
_Every Fairytale Needs a Good Old-Fashioned Happy Ending_

“Bed,” Sherlock said as he eyed the magpie. “I _am_ going to bed after this.” The creature was attempting to eat a noodle that had somehow gotten wrapped around its neck and one wing. It was still somehow succeeding admirably. Sherlock had gotten lo mein at a Chinese takeaway close to St. Barts and the decision had been met with avian approval. He scooped a pea with his fork and placed it on the magpie’s plate. The bird did its best to trill with the noodle in its mouth.

Sherlock snickered and shook his head. “I really don’t know what to do with you or what to believe.” The magpie looked at him with wide eyes and then returned to eating and making a mess on and around the plate. Sherlock also resumed eating and the silence was companionable and comfortable. 

Much to his surprise, they finished the entire carton. “I was hungry,” he said quietly and eyed the bird that was now covered in bits of noodle. “You somehow got me to eat two meals plus snacks today, although we do need to have a chat about your sweet tooth.” The magpie looked at him pensively and then rolled its neck before starting to chatter playfully.

Standing, Sherlock picked up the box and the magpie’s plate, brought them to the kitchen, and then cleaned the table while the magpie chattered incessantly and hopped to and fro. “Your eating habits are deplorable,” he noted while retrieving a clean washcloth. “But let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” He wet the cloth with warm water and then proceeded to carefully clean the magpie. It trilled sweetly when he finished.

“I’m not falling for that,” Sherlock said and placed his index finger by the bird’s feet. The magpie stepped up and then went back to chattering. “You don’t say,” Sherlock continued. “I think this has all been quite profound and shows a deep intellectual and clinical understanding of the situation.” It became silent as he raised it to his eye level. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “How often have I said that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however _improbable_ , must be the truth?” He caressed the bird’s back with his other hand. “I know that I’m not only anthropomorphizing you but also seeing similarities where they don’t exist in order to find a legitimate reasoning for all this silliness.”

The magpie let out a long drawn out chortle. “Or I’ve forgotten that I shot up and this is all just a very pretty hallucination.” The magpie tipped its head to the side and eyed him questioningly. “We are going to try Molly’s suggestion because it’s currently the only thing I have to try.”

Placing a hand on the magpie’s back, he brought it close to his lips. “You better not have West Nile virus,” he muttered against its beak and then closed his eyes. Thinking of Jim Moriarty, everything that could have been, all the words that he’d been too afraid to speak, and all the mistakes that he’d made, including asking Mycroft to interfere, he kissed the magpie gently on the beak and then opened his eyes. Nothing happened.

The magpie trilled softly as Sherlock moved the bird away from his face and then caressed its feathers. He felt an odd sort of disappointment. “No fairy tale here.” Moving the bird to his shoulder, he turned off the lights in the kitchen and walked to the bedroom. The magpie fluttered to perch on the headstand and Sherlock soon fell asleep.

*~*~*

Something roused Sherlock from his deep slumber. Warmth. Comfort. Snuggling. Snuggling with a warm body. It was perfect. He pulled the body in closer, tucking the head underneath his chin, and molding their bodies together. And then Sherlock jolted fully awake. “The hell?” he exclaimed and tried to turn to reach for the light.

“Sherlock,” a voice whispered quietly while two hands grabbed his shoulders. 

Sherlock tensed and his heart started pounding. There was no mistaking the Irish lilt of that voice. Sherlock pulled him close again. “Jim,” he said and he felt the other man start to tremble. “Are you all right?”

“Hold me,” Jim whispered and Sherlock did so as well as gently caress him, almost in the same fashion that he had the magpie. It was different with a human but just as nice, he decided. With _this_ human. He felt a few silent tears fall against his chest but he chose to not draw attention to them. He didn’t think Moriarty would want to talk about it.

Eventually Jim’s trembling stopped but he stayed close to Sherlock. “What happened?” he asked.

“It’s all very odd and strange,” Jim answered slowly as though it was difficult to formulate complete thoughts. “Tea? Do you have tea? I need...”

Sherlock nodded and turned on the light. Jim whimpered at the separation but then took a deep breath and and wrapped the blankets around himself. Sherlock did, however note the bruises on Jim’s face. He sat down on the bed and helped Jim sit up and then pulled the blankets down. Jim tried to protest but Sherlock insisted gently. 

All of Jim’s body was covered in bruises or other injuries. Some, like the enlarged finger marks on his chest, obviously came from the fight with Tom. The other injuries: burn marks, thin lacerations, smaller older bruises did not. “These are not all from today,” Sherlock noted. Jim shook his head. “Tell me?”

“Tea first?”

Nodding Sherlock rose, grabbed a bathrobe, and strode into the kitchen. While the water was heating, he searched through his collection of compounds for a crystal skull that contained a dark brown liquid. After finding it, he poured the water into two mugs and set them on the tray with the sugar dish, the creamer, and the skull.

Sherlock found Jim curled up in the bed underneath the blankets on the bed. “I brought the tea,” he said fairly cheerfully and imagined Jim glaring at him. “And something for the bruises.” He set the tray down and carefully unwrapped the other man. Once he helped Jim sit up again, he handed the other man a mug of Earl Grey.

“Not the fancy set today,” Jim chided but then smiled quirkily. He sounded better.

“Only if you’re going to do the dishes afterward,” Sherlock replied. “Plus, it looked like you needed more than a cup.”

“That’s fair,” Jim agreed and held the warm mug close. He eyed the skull and took a deep breath. “What’s that? Bromobenzyl cyanide to kill me properly?”

Sherlock chuckled. “It does look like that, doesn’t it?” He was relieved to see Jim’s sharp wit returning.

“And it’s in a skull.”

“Yes, but I like skulls,” Sherlock said and then tipped his head. “You do too. Oddly, I somehow only just now realized that.” Jim smiled but then eyed him skeptically as Sherlock pulled the lid off of the crystal skull. “This is my version of _dit da jiao_ , a Chinese formulation, used for pain relief but it works nicely on bruises.” He put some of the liquid on his fingers and then rubbed it on Jim’s injured skin.

“It has an interesting smell,” Jim noted.

“I enjoy it, very fragrant.”

“You’re strange.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock agreed as he moved to the next bruise. “Tell me what happened, if you can.”

Jim sighed and then took another deep breath. “I’ll try. It’s getting easier but a lot of it is scattered and unfocused,” he said. “I’m struggling to put it all in order and that’s beginning to happen here and there but it’s all very overwhelming.”

Sherlock nodded. “I wonder how much of that is from a different pattern of cerebral processing.”

“Perhaps, and perhaps I won’t ever be able to figure it all out.” Jim took a sip of tea. “I thought I had everything set for my escape after the rooftop. Much as I still… well, never mind that, I was leaving. Your message, through Mycroft, was delivered rather effectively and-”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock interrupted but looked intently at the next bruise that he was working on. He couldn’t quite look at Jim while speaking these words. “I didn’t understand what Mycroft would do.” He sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t realize the extent of what he did to you.”

“It wasn’t even an itsy bit adorable,” Jim said dryly.

“I looked at the files later,” Sherlock admitted and shuddered. “I’m sorry. I never meant for any of that to be done to you. I… I just wanted you to leave John alone. It wasn’t about you and me.”

Jim snorted. “I only used John to make it more special for _you_.” Sherlock’s eyes widened with surprise. “And because he’s competent. Anything less would have been an insult to the both of you. Although I did step it back a little when I noticed that he had some PTSD.”

“I knew what you were capable of.” Sherlock sighed.

“Sexy, isn’t it?”

“I’d never had a friend and I didn’t want you to hurt John.”

“You didn’t understand what you were feeling.”

“In both cases, you and John.” Sherlock moved to a particularly nasty bruise and Jim winced when he touched it. “Sorry, this one will hurt a bit. I shouldn’t have involved Mycroft.”

“He’s a teensy bit on the overprotective side,” Jim said and then tried to smile through the pain. “Yes, that one hurts.”

“But that doesn’t explain… this,” Sherlock said.

“After the rooftop,” Jim continued, “His agents captured me again. I have no idea how he knew everything that I’d planned but he did. He took me to a very strange place. Not a government building but an old underground place, I have no idea where. All stone and candles. I remember not understanding what he was doing but knowing, deep down, that I was in true danger, despite his reassuring me that I wouldn’t be hurt.”

Jim took another sip of tea and shuddered. “I remember starting to feel strange and unexplainable energy filling the room. I remember thinking of you and feeling overwhelming sadness that you’d picked John over me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “I hadn’t but I can see why you’d think that,” he said and reopened his eyes. “I didn’t know…”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Jm said and sadness crept into his voice. “I still thought of you and then I remember darkness and strange lights and horrible fear, similar to what I’d felt as a child, followed by a calm, peaceful feeling. My next memory is of Mycroft flinging me off of a building. I later figured out it was St. Barts. Bastard has a perverse sense of humor.”

Sherlock smirked. “He does, unfortunately.”

“I was falling and then I moved my arms and flew,” Jim said. “The rest gets jumbled. “I eventually figured out London again and found a mirror. That’s how I discovered that I was a magpie and it felt both wrong and yet, right.”

“If we believe all this even though it does defy all logic,” Sherlock said, “then I can see how Mycroft would find it entertaining and appropriate.”

“Yes, and I have to admit, at that point, he certainly could have done something more atrocious,” Jim said.

“Agreed.”

“I found Molly and then you but it was difficult to think coherently and formulate plans,” Jim said. “But it seemed that the closer I stayed to you, the easier it became and the more human, perhaps, my thinking became.”

“I wonder why that is,” Sherlock mused.

“I have no idea.” Jim sighed and took another sip. “This is lovely, thank you. I didn’t realize how much I missed a good cup of tea.”

Sherlock smiled in agreement. “So, what happens now?”

“I really have no idea,” Jim said and shrugged. “I have no explanation for any of what happened.” He rolled his neck. “But I did like being kissed.”

“I _will_ get some answers out of Mycroft,” Sherlock said, shifting closer to Jim. “But I think Molly was right and kissing you was the solution.” Jim smiled at him and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. It was a natural smile without any guile or artifice and perhaps the first genuine smile he’d ever seen from James Moriarty.

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed the man. It was gentle and tender at first but then deepened and filled with need, passion, and something else that Sherlock didn’t want to identify but found thoroughly addicting. He kissed the tip of Jim’s nose affectionately. “Well, I think the solution to keeping you human and away from corvid form is to simply kiss you.” Sherlock smiled smugly. “Often and repeatedly.”

“I think that’s a brilliant plan, Mr. Holmes.”

“All my plans are brilliant, Mr. Moriarty.”

“That’s my line,” Jim grumbled playfully but then Sherlock kissed him again. And then a few more times. Eventually they pulled apart and drank their tea. “You remember how I said, years ago, that every fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied and pulled Jim close.

Jim cuddled into Sherlock. “But it isn’t anything at all without a good, old-fashioned _hero_.”

 

**The End**


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts Mycroft over what was done to Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted early for fabricdragon who's had a miserable, terrible, rotten, a bit not good day.
> 
> This epilogue was supposed to be short but Sherlock and Mycroft got to talking...  
> Thanks everyone for reading. I hope you enjoyed this little fairytale.

**Epilogue**

Sherlock strode through the hall towards Mycroft’s office. The past two days with Jim had been tumultuous as the other man readjusted to being human and tried to piece together the remains of what had been his life. Sherlock had felt guilty for his part in what had happened but, surprisingly, Jim had understood and refused to blame him for anything regardless of his frustration.

That day, Sherlock had finally felt comfortable leaving Jim alone for a few hours so that he could confront his brother. Storming into Anthea’s office, he noticed that she didn’t even look up from her Blackberry but pressed the button to unlock Mycroft’s door. “He’s expecting you,” she said.

“Thank you. I hope he’s put the kettle on,” Sherlock grumbled as he pushed open the doors and then closed them a bit forcefully.

“I did,” Mycroft said and closed his laptop before looking up and smiling in that flat, bored way that Sherlock hated. “Hello, Sherlock, how are you this fine morning?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied and sat across the desk from his brother. He wasn’t going to mince words or pretend that everything was fine. “You know why I’m here.”

“Moriarty,” Mycroft answered crisply. 

Sherlock nodded. “And the rest of it. I’ve been caring for him for the past two days and I want some answers.”

Mycroft set down his gold pen and interlaced his fingers. “Would you accept that it really isn’t your concern at the moment and knowing the details isn’t going to change anything?”

“Never.”

“Would you accept that I’d be happier _not_ telling you,” Mycroft continued. 

“No.”

“And the more pleased I am with a situation, the less likely I am to investigate it.”

Sherlock glared at him. His brother’s condescension was something that had always been difficult to tolerate. “The more pleased _I_ am, the less likely I am to divulge government secrets and access to government databases and run off with a known consulting criminal.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes but his expression seemed indomitable. “Do you understand that with knowledge comes certain responsibility?”

“Obviously.”

“Fine. Tell me what you want to know.”

“I don’t even know what to ask you,” Sherlock said. “This is completely and utterly absurd and fantastical except that I’ve witnessed it. What you did is _horrifying_.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Mycroft!”

“And it doesn’t narrow down what sort of information you’re after, Sherlock,” Mycroft noted just smugly enough to make Sherlock growl with frustration. “Tsk.”

“I loathe you.”

“The problem seems to be yours if you can’t phrase a proper question.” He rose. “Let me get the tea.”

Sherlock frowned as he watched his brother bring the tea tray over to the desk and hand him a perfectly prepared cup. “So,” he spoke deliberately, “how did you turn Jim Moriarty into a magpie?”

Mycroft sat down, picked up his teacup, took a sip and then smiled as though Sherlock were a slow child. “The way I do everything, very carefully.” At that response, Sherlock realized that he was not going to get any answers out of his brother if he kept playing this game because Mycroft excelled at diplomacy and twisting words.

Carefully setting the teacup down, he rose and buttoned his jacket. “What are you doing?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock almost wanted to laugh at the subtle changes in intonation that belied his brother’s concern. He turned and walked toward the door. “Sherlock? Where are you going?”

Placing his hand on the doorknob, Sherlock turned and pointedly looked at his brother. “Out,” he replied coolly. He could see Mycroft pondering all the potential scenarios and trouble that he and Jim unchecked could get into. 

“Let’s not be hasty, Sherlock,” Mycroft said evenly. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Mycroft indicated the cup of tea. “And it would be a waste of good tea. I used a premium oolong tea from the WuYi Mountains in the Fujian province of China.”

Sherlock turned and leaned against the door, crossing his arms across his chest. He knew Mycroft would understand. His brother pursed his lips. “Must you be so childish, Sherlock?”

“If you insist on treating me like a child, then I might as well act like one,” Sherlock replied curtly. “Start explaining, Mycroft, or Jim and I will go on a rampage the likes of which which give you nightmares for the rest of your life.”

Mycroft sighed but didn’t seem incensed by Sherlock’s words. “Magic has existed since the beginnings of time,” he said. “Please sit down and I will continue.” 

Sherlock stared at his brother and determined that Mycroft was telling the truth. Much as he’d been angry when he’d arrived and Mycroft had only further aggravated him, Sherlock felt that it would behoove him at this point to see if his brother would be reasonable. He sat down, picked up his tea, and took a sip. “Mmmmm… it’s quite robust with delicate notes of spice and a subtle peach aroma. I approve, Mycroft, but do go on.”

Mycroft seemed annoyed and Sherlock smirked. “With the rise of civilization and more so since the industrial revolution, the number of families who practice the ancient arts have declined,” Mycroft said. “Our family is one of only seventeen remaining. One person is selected to carry on the tradition and practice the arts.” Sherlock nodded. “I didn’t leave home at such an early age to only study politics.”

“I see. And Jim?”

Mycroft winced. “I’m not exactly sure what happened with Mr. Moriarty. The spell was supposed to be irrevocable and in all previous cases it has been.”

“You’ve done this before?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Repeatedly.”

“How can you justify doing something so cruel to another human being, Mycroft?”

“It wasn’t cruel. One of the tenets of practicing the arcane arts is to do good, serve justice, and make life better for others, to the best of your abilities,” Mycroft replied. 

“Turning people into animals is horrific, Mycroft. Jim is... traumatized, as well as struggling to piece his life back together.”

“In each case, the subject was condemned to death,” Mycroft said quietly. All the color drained from Sherlock’s face. “I chose not to kill. What I gave them was an alternative, a way to finish their lives out naturally, in a manner that’s kinder.”

“Were they given a choice?”

“No, but they wouldn’t have been given a choice either way. Death was their only option,” Mycroft explained. “I designed the spell so that they would lose all their memories; in essence, lose their demons, and become that creature. Live out their lives in a much simpler way.”

“And Jim?”

“Mr. Moriarty was perhaps the only one that I judged more harshly than the others because of your involvement, but he did certainly qualify.” Mycroft sighed. “Did he tell you his version of the events? Because something went wrong from the start. I cast the spell properly but it didn’t go off the way it should have and I couldn’t discern anything beyond the physical success.”

“He did tell me his version of the events,” Sherlock said. “And I’ll be damned if I tell you. You are wrong to do this, Mycroft, even if your intentions seem justified to you.”

Mycroft looked away. “Your focus is too narrow right now, Sherlock. You’re not being objective because you’re personally involved in the one instance where things didn’t go as planned.”

“How do you know things didn’t go as planned the other times? How do you know they weren’t suffering?”

“I observed the first few cases intently,” Mycroft answered. “I also put them in the care of behaviorists and physiologists before releasing them. I can show you all the results and reports if you wish. They were nothing but what one would expect of a specific creature.”

Sherlock shook his head. He knew that he truly had no objections to what Mycroft had done had it not been done to Jim and because _he_ had asked Mycroft to interfere. “Did you pick a magpie intentionally?” he finally asked.

“I always try to pick something with which I feel the person would have kinship,” Mycroft explained. “And sometimes I simply ask in a roundabout way.”

“Did I break the spell?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Sherlock sneered.

“Don’t be petty, Sherlock. Do you want me to continue or are you content with a partial answer and misconceptions?”

“Go on,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“It seems that love always breaks the bonds of magic no matter how strong they are,” Mycroft said. 

“The kiss?”

“A kiss can be the vehicle for true love and that has the power to render magic inert. There are other ways that it can be expressed but the kiss is stereotypical. After your kiss, it was dispelled the following midnight.”

“I struggle with all this,” Sherlock admitted.

“I know but please don’t discuss what we’ve spoken about with anyone, including Dr. Watson.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock said and then closed his eyes and was silent as he rearranged his mind palace to accommodate the new information. “I know why your spell didn’t work,” he eventually said and opened his eyes.

“Yes?” Mycroft said looking up from his laptop.

Sherlock wondered how long he’d been in his mind palace. Certainly long enough for Mycroft to start working again. “Love,” he said. “Despite his actions and my mistakes and what you did to him, he still loved me and it shielded him.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment and then nodded. “That does make a certain amount of sense.” 

“You will leave us be?”

“As long as nothing from either of you forces my hand, I wish you both well.” Mycroft handed Sherlock a manilla folder. “Here. This is a case I’d like you, and perhaps your beloved, to work on. I know you are both competent and capable. It may give you both a needed distraction.”

Sherlock took the folder, rose, and walked to the door. “I’ll see what I can do.” He smiled. “I’ve got this business of true love to tangle with now.”


End file.
